


Red

by kurage_hime



Category: Little Red Riding Hood (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Captivity, F/M, Horror, Hurt No Comfort, Multi, POV Second Person, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-02-16 05:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18684982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurage_hime/pseuds/kurage_hime
Summary: Little Red Riding Hood and the horror story which comes after Happily Ever After.





	Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [witheachsunrise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/witheachsunrise/gifts).



You wash the blood from your hands. It’s old blood from a deer shot last week, and it’s the color of mud.

There is a window above the kitchen sink, but you rarely use it to look out into the woods much anymore.

You don’t, truth be told, venture out into the woods much anymore either. Hell, you hardly venture outside your own front door much anymore.

 _He_ doesn’t let you.

“It isn’t safe for you out there in the big bad world,” he says. “I won’t be able to protect you. Stay inside. I don’t want to have to worry about the safety of my sweet little wife.”

Autumn is giving way to winter, and the days are growing steadily shorter, so by the time you are in the kitchen to prepare supper it’s already dark outside. Too dark to look out into the woods. When you chance a glance up at the window above the kitchen sink, all you can really see is your own reflection looking back at you.

Your reflection’s face is tired, the hair lusterless and limp. The delicate flesh drawn tight over one cheekbone is bright red and swollen, where he hit you earlier. That red is the only spot of color you can see.

The venison is roasting, flavored with sage and rosemary. You check the fire in the oven – is the temperature sufficient? Do you need more wood? He always makes sure that the woodpile is well-stocked, so you needn’t worry. In this case, though, the fire is burning merrily, and you need do nothing.

You set the table for supper. He should be home soon. You won’t take the venison out of the oven until he comes home. You sit down at the table and wait.

Once upon a time, back when you were a little girl, this was your grandmother’s house. She died in her sleep when you were thirteen years old. You were remembered in her will. She gave you this house.

You still think of it as your grandmother’s house. It’s never been _yours_. If anything, it’s become _his_.

You hear him arrive before you see him. He’s stopped to scrape the mud off of his boots on the front stoop. He grunts.

You hope he’s had a good day and that the traps he laid out in the woods were full of game. If so, he’ll be in a good mood tonight. It’ll make things easier for you. And if not, well…

“Mmm, smells delicious!” he declares as he strides through the door. “Delicious food from a delicious wife! You’re making _somebody_ hungry!”

He’s in a good mood, you can tell. Thank goodness. You release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“I just need to take the roast out of the oven, dear,” you say. “Two slices or three?”

“Three!” His laugh rumbles in his chest. “Do you even need to ask?”

Three it is. You take the roast out of the oven and a carving knife from the drawer. You run the pad of your thumb across the blade – razor-sharp and gleaming. But he reminds you of the old days tonight, the old days back when you were happy.

Ah…the old days…

You married the man who saved your life as a child: Wasn’t that every little girl’s fantasy, every fairy tale’s happy ending? Of course you thought he’d honor his wedding vows to have and to hold you, to love and to cherish you. After all, you’d promised him your obedience in return.

You were happy in the beginning. You were. You really, really were. At least at first. You had grandmother’s house, and he went into the woods each day and came home each night with food and forage and firewood and everything else you needed. You spent your time meanwhile cooking and cleaning and preparing the nursery.

You were expecting. Quite possible, in fact, that you’d conceived on your wedding night. Oh, how he’d made you scream, first in pain and fear of the red, red blood spilling onto the sheet when you were torn open, and then again, transported by pleasure, your vision a crimson-tinged haze. They said a happy wedding night was auspicious, portending a marriage which would be long and unbroken. Happiness, presumably, was a given.

Well, your marriage had been long, but it hadn’t been happy. Not after the first three months, at least. You know exactly when it started going wrong: your miscarriage. He’d come home early that day, while the sun was still high in the sky, and he’d been fucking you, and fucking you, and fucking you, and you’d screamed, first with pleasure, and then with pain…

When you’d come back to yourself, you’d both been bathed in blood. You hadn’t been able to stop the flow of blood.

After that, there’d been recriminations, anger, and _violence_ —

“I have a surprise for you.” His announcement interrupts your thoughts.

“Oh, what’s the surprise?” you ask. Supper is nearly done, you realize. You don’t remember it. You don’t remember eating.

He smirks. “If I tell you, it’s not a surprise. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

You shrug, acquiescing with ease. You can’t bring yourself to care overmuch, and it seems you’ll find out soon enough anyway.

He always takes his evening shower before you do. He also takes most of the hot water. But that’s fine. He’s the one who needs to wash the dirt and grime of the woods away, not you.

By the time you’ve had your shower, the bedroom is dark, and he’s already tucked into bed and snoring. You put on your favorite red flannel pajamas and slip silently into bed beside him, hoping he’ll just stay asleep until morning.

Your screams aren’t ever from pleasure anymore.

“Can you guess my surprise?” a hot-breathed voice mere inches from your ear asks.

No such luck. Someone’s awake.

_But that someone isn’t your husband._

“What soft lips you have!” he says as he licks them. “What big breasts you have!” he says as he bites them. “And what a—” his words cut off in a lupine howl of ecstasy as he forces your body on top of his and sinks his cock remorselessly into you.

“I found an old friend in the woods. It’s been awhile; I thought you might like to get reacquainted,” your husband says right at the moment you feel him begin to sink into you too from behind.

You are being devoured from both ends.

You think of your carving knife and flee into your fantasies.


End file.
